As I stepped over the threshold, ready to collapse into bed, I stopped dead.

​On the large chaise lounge near the window sat a huge, intricately decorated wicker basket. It was impossible to miss. And it was filled to the brim with chocolates.

​Not just any chocolates. My favorites. There were the dark, almond-studded bars I only ever bought once a year, the imported hazelnut truffles, the creamy white chocolate clusters I adored. It was a veritable mountain of chocolate, and the sight of it wiped away every vestige of my exhaustion and anger.

​"Oh my God," I breathed, my eyes wide. I walked towards the basket, forgetting my sore feet, the ruined evening, and Neil’s existence entirely. I dropped to my knees beside the lounge, my fingers hovering over the bounty. A high-pitched squeak escaped my lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated childish delight. I reached out and gently touched a truffle, my eyes shining with the joy of a five-year-old on Christmas morning.

​"This is insane," I muttered to myself, already planning which one to attack first. "This is absolutely, wonderfully insane."

​I was so consumed by the basket that I didn't realize Neil had closed the door softly behind him until his voice, calm and measured, broke the spell.

​"I thought you deserved something after starving yourself all day," he said, his tone deliberately casual.

​I jumped up, quickly smoothing my sari, forcing a polite, slightly reserved expression back onto my face. I needed to maintain my composure. I wouldn't let him think this ridiculous, consumerist gesture was enough to erase his tardiness.

​"Oh, the basket," I said, trying to sound aloof, like I received baskets of expensive chocolates daily. "It’s... thoughtful. Unnecessary, but thoughtful." I avoided eye contact, pretending to examine a loose thread on my sari.

​Neil walked past me, pulling off his tie with a practiced yank. "My father always bought my mother a gift after she opened her fast on Karva Chauth. I figured it was just... tradition." He shrugged, tossing the tie onto the valet stand. "Consider it a part of the 'business deal' you're so fond of mentioning."

​His deliberate use of the term business deal stung, but the gesture itself had already warmed me, deep down. I fought a silly smile. "Right. Tradition. Well, thank you, then. For upholding the tradition."

​He paused by the bathroom door, looking at me, a faint, inexplicable smirk touching the corner of his lips. The look was fleeting, yet profoundly knowing. He leaned against the doorframe for a moment, his gaze intense.

​"I think I need a shower," he said, pushing off the doorframe and walking into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

​I waited until I heard the distinct sound of the shower turning on. Then, I rushed back to the chaise lounge, sinking to my knees and grabbing the closest chocolate—a dark, delicious truffle. I unwrapped it quickly and popped it into my mouth, savoring the richness. A goofy, unrestrained childish grin spread across my face. It wasn't the "tradition" that mattered; it was the fact that he had paid enough attention to know my favorites, and that he had gone to the effort. It was a small, quiet act of care.

ヽ(●´ε｀●)ノ

The familiar scent of the hospital, that peculiar blend of antiseptic, old linoleum, and faint human vulnerability, usually served as a comforting anchor. It was the smell of purpose, of healing, of my true calling. My ankle, now fully recovered and allowing me complete freedom of movement, no longer served as a physical tether to the Khanna mansion. My daily routine was re-established, the rhythm of consultations, diagnoses, and treatments a welcome distraction.

Yet, the Karva Chauth fast, Neil’s lingering gaze under the moon, and the bizarre, almost tender intensity of our argument on the balcony, the chocolates he bought still gnawed at me, an unsettling undercurrent beneath the calm surface of my days. His question of why I had fasted—it all felt like a mirage, a fleeting illusion I couldn't quite grasp, yet couldn't entirely dismiss. My focus, however, had to remain on the tangible, on the here and now of my patients.

I was making my routine rounds in the paediatric ward, a place that always managed to both break and mend my heart in equal measure. The children here, so small, so innocent, yet facing illnesses with a resilience and bravery that often shamed most adults, never failed to humble me. It was amidst the vibrant, yet hushed, chaos of this ward that I first saw her.

She sat on the very edge of a brightly colored bed, her small frame radiating a profound sense of withdrawal, clutching a worn, faded teddy bear to her chest as if it were her only lifeline. Her hair, thick and black, fell across her face, obscuring most of her features, but I could tell she was young. Perhaps eleven, maybe twelve, an age where childhood innocence often begins to fray at the edges, replaced by the first hints of adolescent awareness.

Beside her, a man stood, his posture stiff, almost awkwardly so, his eyes darting nervously around the room, avoiding direct contact. He was well-dressed, in a shirt a size too small for his frame, pulled taut across his stocky torso, betraying a certain discomfort in his own skin. An uncle, I presumed, given the obvious age difference and the shared family resemblance in the set of his jaw.

I approached cautiously, my steps deliberately soft, my voice a gentle, reassuring murmur. "Hello there," I said, my smile genuine and warm, directing my attention entirely to the little girl. "I'm Dr. Kaveri. And you are?"

She peeked up, her eyes wide and impossibly dark, like a startled fawn caught in a sudden beam of light. They held a haunted quality, far too old for her young face. "Akshi," she whispered, her voice barely audible, thin and fragile.

"And this is your uncle?" I asked, turning my gaze to the man, my professional demeanor firmly in place.

He offered a quick, almost too-eager smile, a flash of white against his nervous face. "Yes, Doctor. I'm her uncle, Suresh. Her parents… they passed away in an accident some years ago. A car crash. Poor thing's been through a lot." His voice was smooth, a little too smooth, an artificial balm, and he kept a hand on Akshi’s small shoulder, a gesture that seemed more possessive, almost restraining, than genuinely comforting. Akshi, in response, flinched almost imperceptibly beneath his touch, hunching further into herself, her already small frame shrinking.

A cold, undeniable flicker of unease rippled through me. My doctor’s instinct, honed by years of observing the minute, unspoken cues of distress in my patients, immediately picked up on the profound discord between the man’s words and the child’s body language. Akshi’s discomfort was palpable, a tangible cloud around her. Her small body language screamed fear, not merely the shyness or grief Suresh claimed.

It reminded me, chillingly, of other children I’d seen in my career, children carrying burdens far too heavy for their young shoulders, burdens that often lurked hidden beneath the surface. And, in a more personal, visceral way, it reminded me, distantly, of the way I felt after Kiara’s betrayal—a pervasive sense of being watched, an underlying, terrifying fear that someone close, someone you should trust, could hurt you.

"Akshi, dear," I said, my voice warm and gentle, my gaze steady and reassuring on the girl, deliberately excluding Suresh from the conversation. "Would you like to talk to me for a moment? Just you and me? We can step into my office, if that would be more comfortable."

Suresh’s hand tightened on Akshi’s shoulder, his fingers digging in slightly. His smile, already fragile, wavered and vanished. "Doctor, I don't think that's necessary. We just came for her routine check-up. She's a bit shy, that's all. And we’re on a tight schedule." His voice held a note of subtle aggression now, a thinly veiled warning.

"It's standard procedure, Mr. Suresh," I insisted, my tone firm, professional, yet leaving absolutely no room for argument. My gaze held his, unwavering, conveying an authority that dared him to challenge it. "Children often open up more when their guardians aren't present. It helps us get a clearer, more holistic picture of their overall well-being. Perhaps you could wait just outside the ward for a few minutes? I'll call you back in when we’re done." My eyes held his, a silent, unyielding challenge in their depths. He hesitated, his jaw clenching, then, sensing my resolute stance, he reluctantly backed down, clearly displeased but unwilling to cause a scene.

"Very well, Doctor," he muttered, his voice tight with barely contained irritation, giving Akshi a quick, unsettling squeeze on the shoulder before turning sharply and exiting the room, his eyes darting towards me one last, venomous time, a silent threat.

As the door clicked shut, sealing us in the relative privacy of the small examination room, Akshi visibly relaxed, a subtle tremor running through her small frame. She still clutched her teddy bear, but her shoulders slumped, losing some of their rigid tension, and her breath came a little easier.

I sat on the edge of the examination bed, carefully creating a comfortable space between us, not too close, not too far. "Akshi," I began gently, my voice soft, calm, devoid of any judgment. "It's just us now. You can tell me anything. Anything at all. Are you okay? Is something troubling you?"

She remained silent for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the worn fabric of her teddy bear, her small fingers tracing a line on its fur. Then, slowly, meticulously, she turned the bear around so its back was to me, a tiny shield against the world. "He… he doesn't like me to talk about it," she whispered, her voice so soft, so fragile, I had to lean in to hear the words, my heart already clenching with a sickening dread.

"Talk about what, sweetie?" I prompted, my own voice a gentle reassurance, my hand instinctively reaching out, then stopping, respecting her space.

She lifted her head then, her dark, haunted eyes, filled with an ancient, unbearable sorrow, met mine. It was the gaze of a child who had seen too much, felt too much pain.

"He hurts me," she breathed, the words a raw, painful confession, tearing through the thin veil of normalcy. "When no one is watching. When he thinks no one will know." A tear welled in her eye, tracing a path down her pale cheek. "He says… he says I’m worthless. He says I’m useless. He says if I tell anyone, he’ll send me to a home where no one will love me and everyone will hurt me. He says I’m a burden." Her voice broke, a small, choked sob escaping her lips, her tiny shoulders shaking. "And sometimes… sometimes he touches me in ways that feel wrong. And he says if I tell, no one will believe me. Because I'm just a child, and children make up stories."

The words, delivered with such fragile honesty, hit me like a physical blow, a vicious, targeted punch to the gut. A cold wave of incandescent fury, sharp and overwhelming, surged through my veins, obliterating everything else. My hands clenched into fists, nails digging into my palms so hard they left crescent marks.

The memory of the knife at my own throat, the chilling confession of betrayal by my own family, flooded my mind, mixing with Akshi's devastating revelation. This wasn't just a child. This was Akshi, vulnerable and trapped. And she was being preyed upon, her innocence stolen, just as I had been betrayed by someone I should have trusted. The rage that simmered constantly beneath my carefully constructed composure, the one I usually kept leashed, erupted, raw and untamed.

"That motherfucker," I muttered, my voice low, trembling with suppressed fury, a dark current running beneath the words. No. Not suppressed. I wouldn’t suppress it. Not this time. My medical oath demanded I protect the vulnerable. My own past, the deep, unhealed wound of betrayal, demanded I stand against this familiar, pervasive darkness, to fight it with every fiber of my being.

I stood up, my movements sharp, decisive, fueled by an almost blinding anger. Akshi flinched, startled by my sudden shift, her eyes wide with apprehension. "Stay here, Akshi, baby" I commanded, my voice tight with a cold, righteous rage. "You are safe. I promise you. No one is sending you anywhere you don't want to go. Ever again, okay. I'll make sure of it." I called Naina and asked her to stay with the baby.

My stride was purposeful, my heart hammering a furious rhythm against my ribs, each beat echoing with the need for justice. I walked out of the paediatric ward, my eyes scanning the waiting area like a predator. Suresh sat slumped in a chair, scrolling casually on his phone, a smug, complacent, utterly sickening look on his face, oblivious to the storm he had just unleashed. The sight of him, so utterly confident in his depravity, so unconcerned, made my blood run cold, then boil.

"Mr. Suresh," I said, my voice dangerously calm, each word a hammer blow, resonating with a barely contained fury. He looked up, his expression shifting from boredom to mild annoyance, then to a flicker of recognition as he saw the raw anger in my eyes. "You are not fit to be a guardian. Not even fit to be called human. You are a fucking monster."

He scoffed, pushing himself up, a smirk curling his lips, laced with contempt. "Doctor, what on earth are you talking about? Has that child been making up stories? She's a troubled child, you know. Imagination runs wild. Just like her mother's." His eyes narrowed, a warning flicker in their depths, a veiled threat. "You shouldn't believe everything a child says."

"Her imagination?" My voice rose, the fury finally breaking free, raw and unfiltered. "She told me everything, you pervert! The abuse! The threats! The way you've been hurting her, body and soul!" I stepped closer, my hands clenched.

His face contorted, the smug mask crumbling completely, replaced by a vicious, ugly sneer. "You bitch! You think you can just barge in here and accuse me? Do you even know who I am? I'll sue this hospital! I'll ruin you! I'll make sure you never practice medicine again!" He lunged forward, his hand raising, his intention clear. To silence me. To hit me. To teach me a lesson.

I reacted instinctively. The anger, the residual trauma of my own past attack, the protective fury for Akshi, fueled my movements. I blocked his swing, my arm shooting up, deflecting his fist. Then, without conscious thought, my own fist clenched and connected solidly with his jaw. A sickening CRACK! echoed in the quiet hallway, startling a few nurses who had just emerged from a patient room. He reeled back, stumbling, his eyes wide with shock, pain, and a fresh surge of rage.

He recovered quickly, his face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated vengeance. He roared, a guttural sound of enraged humiliation, and charged at me again, his fists flailing wildly, his intention clearly to retaliate, to brutalize me, to make me regret that punch.

Just as his hand snaked out, grabbing my arm, his other fist rearing back for what would have been a devastating punch—

A blur of motion. A powerful, dark shape. A sudden, jarring impact.

Suddenly, Suresh was no longer charging at me. He was airborne.

Neil.

He had materialized from nowhere, a dark storm. One moment, Suresh was lunging at me, his face contorted in rage, the next, he was flying backward across the hallway, slamming into the opposite wall with a sickening thud that shook the plaster. Neil stood there, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing with a cold, terrifying fury I had never witnessed before.

His suit jacket was disheveled, his tie askew, as if he had just arrived in a desperate rush, drawn by some unseen force. He hadn't seen the beginning of the altercation, he hadn't heard Akshi’s confession, he hadn't known why I was confronting Suresh. He had simply seen a man attacking me. And that had been enough.

Suresh groaned, slumping against the wall, dazed but conscious, a trickle of blood already forming at the corner of his mouth. He pushed himself off, wiping the blood with a shaky hand, his eyes wide with fear, hatred, and a desperate resolve. He lunged again, fueled by desperation and primal rage, but he was clearly outmatched.

Neil moved with a swift, brutal efficiency that was shocking to witness, utterly devoid of the polished control he usually exuded. He intercepted Suresh, delivering a short, sharp jab to the solar plexus that instantly buckled the man’s knees, stealing his breath. As Suresh gasped for air, doubled over in agony, Neil grabbed him by the collar, twisted him around, and slammed him face-first into the wall again. The impact was sickeningly loud, a visceral sound of bone against plaster.

"You lay a hand on her again," Neil growled, his voice low, guttural, a primal threat that vibrated through the hallway, making every nurse, every doctor who had rushed out, freeze in their tracks. "You even think about hurting her, or anyone else, and I will end you."

He didn't stop there. He continued, a relentless, merciless assault, punch after punch, his anger escalating with each brutal blow, each impact a testament to a deep, visceral rage. Suresh crumpled, then fell, a whimpering, bloody mess at Neil’s feet, an unrecognizable heap of broken dignity and fractured bones.

I stood frozen, watching the brutal efficiency of Neil’s attack, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm, a strange mix of terror and an unwelcome, dangerous thrill. The cold, analytical CEO was gone, replaced by a protective, vengeful force of nature, a primal instinct unleashed. He barely registered the surrounding nurses and doctors who had rushed out, horrified by the sudden, savage violence that had erupted in their usually serene hallway.

Neil finally stopped, breathing heavily, his chest still heaving, his knuckles bruised and reddened. He looked down at the unconscious man, a silent, contemptuous glare. Then slowly, his gaze rose to mine. His eyes, though still blazing with residual fury, held a question, a silent plea for understanding, a raw need for an explanation. He hadn't known why I was attacking Suresh, or why Suresh had retaliated. He had simply seen me in danger.

And for a moment, just a fleeting, terrifying moment, I saw past the cold businessman, past the infuriating husband, past all my carefully constructed defenses. I saw the man who had effortlessly disarmed my attacker, who had, once again, stepped into the path of danger for me, unleashing a fury I never knew he possessed. And the truth, raw and undeniable, was that my walls, so meticulously built brick by painful brick, were crumbling under the weight of his unexpected, overwhelming protection.